


The Season of our Discontent

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: Winter is coming, and it has someone feeling homesick.
Kudos: 10





	The Season of our Discontent

Thick patches of dry, brown leaves hung from the tree limbs canopied across the road, and as the wind picked up they cascaded down on the pair of riders like hard rain.

“How far that sign say we were from Moskee?” Curry asked, flipping the collar up on his sheepskin coat.

“Ten miles.”

“How far you figure we’ve ridden?”

“Should be seeing its outline soon.”

“So, eight..nine miles?”

“At least.”

The wind whistled again, showering them and the roadway with leaves that skidded and swirled along the rocky, hard surface. As the wind picked up more, lifting the manes on their horses, and Heyes hunkered lower in his faded, worn thin ranch coat.

“Tired of the wind.”

From behind his bandana, Heyes muttered, “me, too.”

“Tired of being cold.”

“Me, too.”

“Would like some hot coffee and food that’ll stick to my ribs.”

Peeking over, Heyes put in, “I’d like a couple of nights indoors, off the frozen ground.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, we have to check out the town first.”

Heyes rose up enough to glare over at Curry, “I know the rules, sides I ain’t the one whose been grousing.”

“I haven’t been grousing.”

“That’s what its been sounding like to me, you been going on about what you’d like and what you want since we turned toward Moskee.”

Curry frowned deeply, riding a bit further away from Heyes, he mumbled to himself, “miss the Devil’s Hole.”

But, Heyes heard him, and his spine stiffened, jerking him up straight, “Did I just hear you, right?”

Curry shrugged, big enough, the bulky shoulders of his coat nudged his hat. “Not the outlawing, gotten used to being law-abiding, just miss having our own home.”

Turning in his saddle, Heyes stared thunderstruck at him, “Home!?!”

“You never felt that way about the Hole?”

Heyes stared at him a moment more, then shook his head, “suppose I did, just never put the word home with it.”

“Well, I didn’t realize when I brought up us going for amnesty,” Curry looked bleakly up, at the bright blue sky above them, “that we’d be living in our saddles.” The wind rose up to a rushing roar, and he roughly tightened his stampede strings to hold his hat down snug. “Hell, we live a life worse than a damn drover. Leastways, they have a ranch bunkhouse in the winter.”

Half under his breath, Heyes answered, “we could stop trying.”

“No. We’ve been at it too long to turn back.”

“Then what are you getting at?”

“Nothing really,” Curry turned his face away, peering down an open hollow filled with birch trees, their white bark gleaming in the sunshine.

Watching him from the slant of his eye, Heyes quietly asked, “chasing amnesty starting to twist in your gut?”

Curry gave a small shrug, and for a time, they rode along in silence, and as they came over a slope the square outlines of Moskee’s false fronts could be seen on the horizon.

Feeling they needed to finish this discussion before they were around others, Heyes kneed his sorrel closer to his partner, “well, is it?”

Curry’s blue eyes held a haunted expression when he turned back, “I know going for amnesty was all my idea. But damn it, Heyes, why’d you have to latch on like a catfish?”

Heyes did not reply and studying him, Curry read an anxious tension building in his cousin, exhaling heavily, he muttered, “Don’t worry on it, Heyes, I will be all right.”

Heyes bowed his head, “snow might not be that deep.”

Curry looked about them, at the dry, russet landscape surrounding them, “snow???”

“Up in the passes, we could still make our way to the Hole, if we pushed.”

“We can’t do that.”

Heyes passed Curry a small smile, “we’ve ridden up there later in the year than this.”

“No.” Curry shook his head briskly, “I mean, we _can’t_ do that.”

Heyes nodded, swallowing hard, “just don’t want you building a grudge against…” his words faded, being left unspoken.

Curry too nodded, smiling a bit sadly, “like you always say, grudges are for folks with bad stomachs, and other than being empty mine is in good shape.”

Turning just enough, he could see his life long pal from the corner of his eye, Heyes asked, “you sure?”

“Positive,” Curry edged his bay over closer, “coffee, hot food, warm bed, and I will be back to myself tomorrow.”

Heyes nodded, but somehow he looked forlorn.

Reaching out, Curry clasped his shoulder, “sides, I would never build up a grudge against you.”

Heyes looked across the short space, separating them, his dimples deepening enough to make his eyes sparkle. “Good to hear, ‘cause grudges are for folks with bad stomachs.”

A laugh rolled from Curry, “Yes, they are.” He squeezed Heyes’ shoulder before letting it go. “Where did you pick that phrase up from, anyhow?”

This time it was Heyes who shrugged, “oh, that was another one of Grandpa Curry’s gems.”

“And, you’ve made it yours.”

Heyes shrugged again, “that and you’ve got to have a little faith, I also got that from him.”

A bit of wonder lit up Curry’s face, “Hmph, I will think differently on both those phrases, now, when you quote them.”

They were entering the town, and as they rode past the Sherrif’s office, Heyes peeked out from under his low pulled hat. “Sheriff Geoffery Towell?”

“Never heard of him.”

Heyes’ smile was back, “Me neither, let’s stable these horses and get some dinner.”


End file.
